“Are we not staying, then?” Drake asks.
Gabriel shakes his head distractedly. “You know in the northlands this is New Year’s Eve?”
“I didn’t.” Drake tries to think like Gabriel for a moment. They’re not staying at the Ox because in the northlands it’s New Year’s Eve on the Longest Night. “You want to go call on Deirdre?”
Gabriel beams. “I knew you’d like the idea. She’ll be expecting me. I always spend it there.”
“That explains why the whiskey’s so good.” An evening at Deirdre’s is no midwinter ball, but it’ll be nice to have company for the holy day all the same. He pictures himself explaining to Danny that he spent the Longest Night in the company of a northlands barbarian and an infamous cutthroat, and has to chuckle.
“She’ll know the difference,” Gabriel says as the barkeep comes back with the bottle. The glass is green, the sealing-wax red: both signs of northlands make. “Thank you.” Gabriel takes the bottle, tucks it carefully under his coat. “Shall we?”
“After you,” Drake says. He’s not really had time to get warm yet, but he doubts that staying in here for longer will make him more interested in going back out into the cold. They might as well go now, so they can be sure to arrive before sunset. It’s bad luck, he’s heard, to stay out after dark on the Longest Night; it’s the last night of the year that the Green Lady is free to walk the world of the living. He decides not to mention that to Gabriel, just in case it gives him any ideas about wandering the street all night trying to encounter her face-to-face.
As they head south, away from the river again, they pass a few determined groups of revelers carrying torches that sputter and reek of lamp oil, singing the sunrise-returning songs Drake learned in childhood. Hail! Fire bright and high, he hears as they pass one group, and the tune sticks in his head, so that he catches himself humming it as they make their way to Deirdre’s little house in the deepening gloom.
When he stops at her door and raps on the window, the last of the light outside is fading. There’s a lamp lit inside, though, and he can hear footsteps.
“You’re late,” Deirdre says when she opens the door. “I was starting to think you’d made other plans.”
“Never.” Gabriel produces the bottle. “I had to find a gift for you, is all.”
Deirdre’s eyebrows rise. “Keeping such highborn company’s been good for your manners, I see.” She takes the bottle and steps back to let them through the door. “Welcome to you both. It’s been a while. How’ve you managed to stay out of trouble for so long?”
“It’s all Drake’s fault,” Gabriel says as they follow Deirdre into the house. She has a fire burning in the front room, and there’s a rack in front of it where Gabriel hangs his coat. “He’s clever, so we get away more.”
“Good to have someone talking a bit of sense into you, at any rate,” Deirdre says.
Drake hangs up his coat too, to dry by the fire, and follows Deirdre and Gabriel into the kitchen. The stove’s going in there, fire crackling away in its iron belly and a pot on top of it, full of something that smells wonderful.
Deirdre catches the look on his face and laughs. “Don’t get your hopes up too much. He was a tough old bird before he went in the pot. He’s been stewing since midday to try to coax a little tenderness into him.”
“I’ve no doubt it’ll be delicious,” Drake says, and means it.
“And besides that, it’s tradition,” Gabriel adds. He reaches for the handle on the lid of the pot, and then pulls his fingers back, shaking them.
“Tradition?” Drake says. He looks at Deirdre. “Gabriel says you two do this every year.”
“Older tradition than that. Something I remember from being a girl in Diere.” Deirdre takes three earthenware dishes down from their shelf and sets them on the table. Before she touches the pot lid, she gets a rag to guard her hand. Steam rises from the pot when she opens it. “On the last of the year, you kill the oldest rooster in the flock.” She sets the pot in the middle of the table, and fetches some dulled silver and a heel of dark bread. “You pluck him, clean him, and boil him until you’ve drawn out all the strength left in his old bones.”
Gabriel leans over the pot, spearing something on one of his knives and lifting it out onto his plate. “That way,” he says, satisfied, like the idea pleases him, “you take his strength with you into the new year.”
“I see,” Drake says. It’s a morbid thought, but no worse than baking death’s-head cakes for children on the Lady’s holy day. He probably sounded doubtful just now, and he hopes Deirdre won’t take offense to that. “Thank you for making it for us.” It’s easier to believe in Gabriel’s dragons and trolls and the like when he’s here, and a little extra politeness never harmed anyone in that sort of tale.
“Probably hard to make a dragon stronger,” Gabriel says as he fishes more food out of the pot.
“Easy to make him less hungry, though.” Drake takes a fork to start claiming some for himself before Gabriel gets all the choicest bits.
The bird’s cooked so long that it falls apart almost as soon as they poke at it, coming off the bones into a thick, heavy broth. There are tiny onions and chunks of turnips, and flecks of some savory herb, and Deirdre brings out a big wooden spoon so they can ladle the broth into their dishes along with the meat. It’s the best meal Drake’s had in months, filling and flavorful and hot. He almost believes that he can feel the strength he’s supposed to gain from it seeping into his blood.
When they’ve emptied the pot and wiped their plates clean with the last of the bread, Deirdre takes up the lantern from the shelf above the stove and turns toward the door. “Now, if you’d care to come with me, I’ve a fire that needs tending.” She picks up the whiskey bottle in her other hand. “And a mind to share what you’ve brought me, if you’ll take a drink or two.”
“I wouldn’t turn it down,” Drake says, and only after that thinks to look over at Gabriel to be sure he hasn’t given offense.
Gabriel’s smiling back at him, the quiet, dreamy smile that means his head’s full of dragons again. “I’d like that. Fire in the hearth and fire in the bottle.” He laughs. “And fire in your belly.”
“Yours too,” Drake says as he gets up from the table. “Let’s go.”
He can feel Gabriel behind him, too real a warmth to be simply imagined, as they leave the kitchen for the . . . it would be a parlor, Drake supposes, if Deirdre’s house were fine enough for that sort of thing. There are two lit lanterns, a moth-eaten sofa, and the drying rack put aside so Deirdre can kneel by the brick fireplace to coax new flames from the logs that have burned down to coal there.
“I wondered about that,” Drake says. “The extra fire. It seemed like having two of them—” He stops, realizing he may be about to insult Deirdre’s poverty. They’re worse off than she is, but he wasn’t always, and it seems impolite.
“No, you’re right.” She feeds another log into the fire. Her skin and hair are the same color in its light. “If it weren’t the new year’s eve, I’d not bother with this, and let the kitchen stove give me heat for the night.”
“Another tradition?” Drake asks. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gabriel curling up on one end of the sofa, knees drawn to his chest, boots resting on the edge of the seat.
“The most important one,” Deirdre says. “As the days grow shorter, Mathyn Bright-Shining turns away from us. We burn the fires all night tonight in honor of his birth-day tomorrow, and to remind him we want him to return.”
“You should tell his story,” Gabriel says. “I haven’t told Drake that one, because you tell it much better.” He sounds quiet, petulant, younger than he has in weeks. Drake frowns at him, worried he might have a fit coming on, but he’s still, calm, almost at peace. He watches the fire, and it shines in the black of his eyes.
“For that,” Deirdre says, “we’ll definitely want the whiskey, to toast him.” She sits down on the other side of the sofa and opens the bottle, and Dr
ake, after a moment of hesitation, sits in the middle.
The story Deirdre tells is fantastical, strange, a long poem that she recites in an almost singing rhythm, the story of the golden warrior Mathyn, whose spear is the first ray of dawn or perhaps a bolt of lightning striking the earth, and his twin brother Senan, whose shield is the full moon and whose bow is the crescent. They hunt serpents that might be rivers, and quarrel with a woman made of crows, and pay court to girls as rich as the green hills and as endless as the sea. The whiskey bottle passes among them easily, catching the soft light of the fire. Gabriel shifts against Drake’s side when Deirdre’s voice rises in the telling of one of the brothers’ great battles, and Drake leans into him without really meaning to. It’s warm here, the fire and the whiskey and Gabriel wiry and solid against his side. If he could just hold on to this moment, he’d . . . he’d what, exactly? How has he grown so comfortable here?
“And their sons and daughters settled the whole of the free north,” Deirdre finishes, “from the hills of Senmae to the seas of Mabvhein, from the snows of Aginau to the plains of Hanaein.” Her voice cracks, and she lifts the whiskey bottle in a toast. “May it ever be so.”
Drake lowers his gaze. He feels like he should be apologizing, even though he’s not the one who caused her troubles.
“You should tell a story now, Drake,” Gabriel says. He reaches across Drake for the whiskey bottle. “A dragon story.”
“You don’t want to tell one?” Drake asks. He suspects he knows the answer, but it might buy him some time.
“Deirdre’s heard all my stories before.” Gabriel drinks, and pushes the bottle into Drake’s hand.
“Go ahead,” Deirdre says. She waves as if to grant permission. “I’ve never heard any dragon stories.”
Drake grimaces, takes a pull on the whiskey while he tries to come up with something. He thinks of the tales he remembers from nursery, all those stories about the quick wit of Fox. Gabriel always talks about how clever he thinks dragons are. “Have you heard the story about the dragon who stole a mountain?”
“No,” Gabriel breathes, his eyes wide. Of course he hasn’t; it’s actually the story of why Fox lives in a manor house, but Drake thinks he can change it as he goes.
“Once, far away but not so far as all that,” Drake begins, “there lived a dragon. He was young, as dragons go, and small for his age, because he was the last to hatch out of his—out of his brood. But he was quick and clever, and fared decently enough.”
“What color was he?” Gabriel asks.
Drake hesitates. “Green.”
Gabriel hums. “Not red?” He reaches up and pets Drake’s hair.
“It isn’t a story about me.”
“Tell it anyway.” Gabriel takes the whiskey back, and settles down with his head on Drake’s shoulder after he’s had some.
“When he—when he was old enough to go seek his fortune, he left the cavern where he’d grown up to go find a mountain of his own.” He looks over at Deirdre, but she’s just watching him, waiting. “He traveled for days and days, searching for a mountain he could claim. Someplace with steep heights for soaring around, and valleys where there might be sheep for him to eat, and a cavern where he could gather precious things to hoard.” In the real story, Fox is looking for a fine enough house that Vixen will come to live with him, but Drake decides not to put that part in.
“Eventually, just when he thought he might have to give up and go home in disgrace, he found it—the loveliest mountain he’d ever seen, with a sharp peak reaching to the sky, and bright green meadows circled around the foot, and the inky black opening to a cavern on the sunniest side.”
“Was there snow?” Gabriel asks.
“Yes,” Drake decides. “Up at the very top of the mountain, there was a crown of snow. And the dragon knew that this was the mountain he wanted. But he was clever enough to know that some other creature probably also thought the mountain fine, and there was a good chance that cavern wasn’t empty.” In the story with Fox, the monster living in the manor is called Chameleon, but Drake doesn’t know what that is, and he’s sure Gabriel would ask. “So he asked the creatures he met near the mountainside, and all of them said the same thing: the cavern on the mountain belonged to a giant who could change his shape by magic, and no other creature in all the land was so cruel or so proud or so deceitful. It was— What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” Gabriel says. He’s holding on to Drake’s shirt. “Keep going.”
Drake takes another drink of the whiskey, feels the burn of it down his throat, and passes it to Deirdre as he picks up again. “The dragon was almost discouraged, because he was still too young and too small to be sure of himself in a fight against a giant. But it was the loveliest mountain he’d ever seen, and he’d win such renown if he could claim it for his own. So he gathered all his courage, and went up the mountain to the giant’s cavern, which was even better than he’d hoped, with glittering, shiny rocks in the walls. But if the cavern was better, the giant was worse, sitting in a nest of bones and picking his nasty yellow teeth.”
He’s enjoying himself, Drake realizes. It’s like boasting in a tavern, only a little easier, because Gabriel wants to believe. “The giant called out to him, demanding to know who dared to enter his cave. And the dragon showed all his teeth, which is a polite way of greeting someone, for dragons, and said that he had come from far away to see the giant that everyone spoke of. ‘What do they say about me?’ the giant asked, because usually he ate people up before they could say much at all.” Drake feels silly when he realizes he’s putting on a deeper voice for the giant, but he can’t seem to help himself. “‘They say you are the cruelest creature anyone has seen,’ said the dragon. ‘But how could anyone be as cruel as a troll?’ The giant cursed and swore at the dragon, who only blinked back at him and showed his teeth, and at last the giant said, ‘A troll! I can be every bit a troll,’ and he turned himself into one, just like that.”
Gabriel’s gone so quiet, so still, that Drake thinks he might have fallen asleep, but he’s watching intently when Drake glances down. “Keep going,” he says.
“The dragon reared back, because the troll was truly frightful. ‘They also say,’ he said, ‘that no creature is as proud. But how could anyone be as proud as a griffin?”
“A what?” Gabriel asks.
“A griffin. It’s an imaginary creature, half eagle and half cat, as big as a horse.”
“Ah.” Gabriel nods. “I’d seen pictures, but I didn’t know what they were called. Thank you.”
Drake smiles. “Of course. So the giant turned into a griffin, beating his wings, snapping his beak, and the dragon had to admit he was magnificent. ‘Truly amazing,’ said the dragon. ‘And yet, I have also heard it said that you are deceitful, and where is the deceit in a mighty being like you taking the form of such terrible creatures? It would be true deceit to imitate something harmless.’”
“Oh, clever dragon,” Gabriel says, and Drake can’t tell whether he means the one in the story or not.
“So the giant, who was as stupid as he was cruel, turned himself into a black-faced valley sheep, and of course the dragon pounced on him, and ate him right up.” It’s a childish story, perhaps, but Drake’s pleased with himself all the same. “And so the young dragon took over the mountain, and for all I know, he lives there still.”
“Well told,” Deirdre says, and Drake starts. He’s nearly forgotten she was listening too.
“Thank you,” he says, nodding to her.
“Are you sure you haven’t any to add, Gabriel?” Deirdre asks. “Then we’d have gone round the circle.”
Gabriel seems to grow smaller, hunching down beside Drake. “No.”
“Nothing at all?” Drake says, reckless. His throat feels parched from speaking.
“Once there was a boy whose mother didn’t want him, so she set him out for the Lady,” Gabriel says quietly. “But She only kissed him and gave him back. The end.”
“
Gabriel?” The heat of the fire feels too close, uncomfortable all at once.
“The end,” Gabriel repeats.
“The end of that story’s never been told,” Deirdre says. Drake doesn’t think she’s speaking to him. She gets up from the sofa. “You should sleep, if you can. I’ll mind the fire.”
“Here?” Drake asks.
Deirdre nods. “It’ll be cold upstairs. This old house doesn’t hold the heat so well.” She kneels by the fireplace, stirring the half-burnt logs to coax up a spray of bright sparks. “Get some rest. You’ll feel better in the morning, won’t you, Gabriel?”
“I’m fine,” Gabriel says, and burrows into Drake’s side like they’re back in their Cypress Street room and he really does need to be that close to stay warm.
“Sleep well,” Deirdre says as Drake stretches out across the sofa’s length, and Gabriel shifts to join him.
Despite the warmth and the relative comfort—still nothing like the goose-feather bed he had a lifetime ago in his parents’ house, but so much better than the mat of straw they have now—Drake doesn’t manage to sleep through the night. He wakes once to see Deirdre adding more wood to the fire, and again later to hear her humming a tune he thinks he might recognize as she sits by the fireside. She found them a blanket at some point while they slept; now Gabriel is solid and almost too heavy against Drake’s side and the blanket holds the warmth in with them both. He can remember tiny scraps of his dreams—books with engraved illustrations of dragons drinking in taverns, northlands barbarians on some sort of sacred quest in the Cypress Street graveyard.
When he wakes for the third or fourth time, the room’s gone from near-black to stormy-weather gray, and the fire has died down to a few red embers. Deirdre’s gone—possibly in the kitchen, from the sound—and Gabriel is still asleep, wedged between Drake and the back of the sofa. He sighs when Drake shifts to get up, but doesn’t wake. Drake eases his way off the sofa and tucks the blanket around Gabriel’s shoulders before he heads into the kitchen.
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